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Saturday, March 14, 2015

Derailed Days

It's been so long since I've written fiction, that I've almost forgotten how to write it. I dont know hat this is - I almost don't know where I'm coming from, and I don't know what I'm trying to say. I just...don't know.

Those long, quiet afternoons I spent reading, writing, and staring emptily out of my window - I’d hoped for philosophical wisdom to come storming into my mind, but the unending corridors inside were only filled by a loud, urgent, and rushing wind that filled my ears with an all-consuming nothing.

There was nothing wrong with me- not really, but I still wished there was. I wanted to sit on my unmade bed, in last week’s pajamas, and read until my eyes hurt. I wanted to look over the horizon thoughtfully, have a very dismal epiphany, and then smile at the tragedy of it all. I wanted to be sad, and introspective, because I thought life would be so much more interesting that way.

It’s almost funny when I think about it now. A romantically melancholy disposition was what I had craved - a mysterious aura of quietly bearing distress. I’d wanted to be sad because I thought it was cool.

I cringe today, but those were strange times for me. Derailed, lost - that's what I was. Gaining pleasure from pain, and pain from pleasure

Those quiet afternoons I spent thinking of nothing, and crying tears that weren't mine, relishing a deep, heaving sadness that arose from the screaming emptiness in my mind.